Bouquet of Thorns: Sherlock x fem!reader

Chapter 31 - Reminiscing

John looked to Sherlock's locked room with regret, then focused on his phone again to reply to Sebastian's messages. How was he to console his friend if his own words hadn't failed to insult every aspect of you hours prior? Sherlock heard it all but let none of it bother him, only humming absently. No doubt he was thinking of you, dismissing every word John did to dismantle whatever delusional idea Sherlock had of you.

Was he to do anything? He would make it worse. In this case, he already had. John grabbed his coat, making his way down the steps with nothing more than a sympathetic look given to Mrs Hudson, whose cheeks were puffy from the tears.

He knew to scour the flat for anything Sherlock could get his hands on. He was doing so well. He was doing so well because of you.

"Nothing in the flat," he answers the moment he sees Mycroft call. "What do we do?"

"For now? Nothing," he hums, sitting in his office. "Sherlock will need time, and I mean that with any trace of sentiment I have,"

John looked up to the flat windows again, sighing gently and walking down the street. While he wished he could do something more, he knew what Mycroft said was in best intentions.

"Mycroft... The plane-" John slowly starts. "Did you know-?"

"Know? Did I know about the accident?" Mycroft clicks his tongue, "are you implying I had something to do with it?" A silence followed, "Y/n L/n is not, and never has been, an interest to the British government, nor myself. Does that suffice?"

~~~

Sherlock sunk into his bed, nothing out of place except a single pillow scrunched up in his hold. It took in every tear shed by the motionless detective. Each one sunk further into the material, almost igniting the memories it held with time spent with you. He could even get hints of your perfume, taking a deep breath as his grief-caused exhaustion lulled him to sleep.

For days since the news broke, he's been bedridden in his room. Hardly much food, disinterest in any case, and not a soul could revive him from this state of disarray. But clean he was, and clean he'd stay. If there was one promise to you he was to keep, it was the promise to take care of himself. Always, no matter what.

He shifted up, looking at the box. The very last of you he had a hold on.

It sat at the exact place he had left it, just mocking him with every glance. He was cursed with the pain of knowing you and losing you. Now, the memories you had gifted were the sour reminder of what he had no more.

His shaky hands reached forward, taking the box as he sat up. It was nothing more than cardboard brown with a sticker here and there, yet it hurt to look at so much.

He then saw the postcard. Your handwriting was scribbled all over the back, but his tear-strained eyes made it hard to focus on what it said. Maybe you would have loved where you went. Maybe you chose it yourself. Maybe it was the many places you wanted to visit.

The box's lid was put to the side, eyes now analysing the contents. Nothing. There was... nothing?

Well, not nothing, but it was only a note. Had he not felt the weight? Did its lightness not phase him, or had the news completely rid him of logic and reason?

His eyes focused back in. The words finally formed in front of him and were recognised in his head. Over and over, he read those two words. He had thought maybe, just maybe, his prayers would be heard.

Not dead.

As much as anger, fury, and shock would have fueled his subsequent few actions, instead determination did.